Revision
by PhotonsBeFree
Summary: Foster brings in someone from her past to help on a kidnapping case, but who is she, and why is Lightman avoiding her? Callian, with a dash of Loker/Torres.
1. Prewriting

A/N: Hello, everybody! I've never published fan fic before, but I had one of those ideas I had to write down, and once I wrote it, I had to share it. The result is an AU-ish story written for writers, dedicated to all of you authors out there. I'd love your ideas on how to make this better. :)

There are eight chapters in all, and I'll post one or two chapters a day until they're all up. Enjoy!

Oh, yeah. I don't own any television shows. Not one.

_Revision_

Chapter One: Pre-Writing

_April, 2003_

_Dr. Gillian Foster cringed as she walked past the front desk and the staff that was sorting through her patients' mail. Four years working here, and she still hadn't gotten used to it. Sure, they came across the occasional pack of cigarettes or razor blade, but it just seemed so wrong. She took a deep breath and tried not to look, focusing on the grimy door that led to her office. She'd spent a decade counseling government agents, but it wasn't until she'd come here that she knew how emotionally draining psychiatry could be. The walk from her car to her desk felt like wading through water. At least she had Alec to go home to every night—he was such a comfort during these difficult times._

_She waited patiently for the door to creak open, revealing a seventeen-year-old girl who walked like she was sixty. Like she was stepping on broken glass. Dr. Foster sighed inwardly. This was what she had to deal with every day. This was what she had to try to fix._

_Why did it seem like nothing she did mattered?_

_It took a few seconds for the girl to reach the chair opposite her desk, and Gillian made herself smile as she watched the girl inch the chair back and slowly take her place, shoving her hands in the kangaroo pouch of her tattered, oversized sweatshirt. She didn't look up, keeping her eyes trained on the desk, but her hair was draped so strategically over her face that it didn't matter. _

"_You're not going to like me."_

"_Excuse me?" Gillian had been about to ask the girl one of the standard questions, and the interjection caught her off-guard._

"_You're not going to like me."_

"_Oh, I disagree. I think you seem very likeable."_

_That earned her a stare from her patient, who finally lifted her head show Gillian tired eyes that peeked through strands of hair half in revulsion, half in helplessness._

"_You think _I'm_ likeable." Her head went back down. "I make the homeless look giddy. You're my third shrink in two weeks. The other two couldn't stand me, and neither will you." _

_The shame that came with the statement was unmistakeable, and Gillian knew that though the words were full of venom, none of it was meant for her. How could she tell this girl not to hate herself? How could she stay professional and hide the love and compassion that was already welling up inside of her on behalf of this poor, miserable girl?_

"_I think you underestimate me. I'm not like the other doctors—__I have a gift. I can see past the pain. In fact, I can already tell that on the inside, you're a good person."_

_The girl scoffed bitterly, but said nothing. Gillian swallowed._

"_So, tell me why you think _I _won't like you."_

_The girl threw her head up and blew the hair away from her solemn eyes before locking them with Gillian's. _

"_Because I'm not going to kill myself."_

_Gillian found herself speechless._

* * *

January, 2010

Eli Loker lifted an eyebrow when he looked out the passenger side window to see where Dr. Foster had taken him. They were at a local park, and from the parking lot he could see a large, green field filled with people, coolers, and lawn chairs. Was she taking him to a picnic?

"What does this have to do with our case?" he finally blurted out. He couldn't help but hope that it had nothing to do with the case at all.

"You'll see," Foster replied, using her signature sing-song tone. Loker bit his tongue to keep down the words that would certainly get him fired. The close calls of the past year had made his trademark honesty decidedly less radical.

She pulled the keys out of the ignition and walked onto the field, and Loker hesitated for a second before ducking out of the car to follow her. As he got closer to the group of people, he saw that it wasn't a picnic at all—it was a community soccer game. The lawn chairs and coolers he'd noticed earlier were lining the rectangular playing field, each spectator cheering for one team or the other. He quickly covered his ears. He didn't know how he hadn't realized the noise before. It was difficult to keep up with Foster as she weaved her way through the crowd, but when they finally broke through the maze of people and arrived at the sideline, his jaw dropped.

This was a women's soccer game. A soccer game for women _his_ age, or younger, all with tight, muscular bodies and short shorts. He knew now why this field was so popular. Where had these girls been all his life? What on Earth had he done to get Foster to take him here?

"That's who we're here for," Foster said, pointing towards the far end of the field, "the goalie."

She wasn't hard to spot—after all, she was wearing a bright yellow goalie's shirt. It was a little baggy on her, but Loker could see that she was in good shape, though she was a little tiny. She probably wasn't more than five feet even, which set her apart from the rest of her teammates. That, and her shorts, which were long enough to touch the top of her kneecaps. Her dark brown hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and she tucked a strand of it behind her ear as she stood behind the goal line, her hands on her half-bent knees, her eyes trained on the game.

"Gillian!"

Loker turned and saw a well-built man who seemed to be in his twenties, with dark hair poking out of his Duke baseball cap, waving at them from the center of the sideline. He motioned for them to come over.

"Gillian! What are you doing here?" The stranger smiled, leaning in to hug Foster. Loker thought he could have asked the same question, among others.

"Oh, you know, I just need an extra hand around the office," she said, Loker catching a smile on her face that matched the stranger's.

Pulling out of the hug, the man reached a hand out for Loker to shake. "Peter Foreman, sports medicine." He nodded towards Foster, "You work for her?"

Loker was barely able to reply when a group of players rushed past them, eliciting even more noise from the crowd. He saw a girl pass the ball to her teammate, and Loker couldn't help but pity the vertically-challenged goalie as the tall, Scandinavian-looking girl swiftly kicked the ball towards the goal.

His eyes followed the ball as it sped through the air, heading for the top-right corner of the net, when suddenly a pair of gloved hands came out of nowhere and plucked the ball out of its path. Loker didn't have time to wonder how the goalie could have possibly jumped that high—she ran to the edge of the goalie box and drop-kicked the ball, which flew so far that it almost reached the opposing team's goal. The crowd roared as a forward raced towards to ball and kicked it in.

"She's amazing, isn't she?" Peter turned to Foster, then back to the game. "She's had a perfect season so far—not one ball has gotten past her." Loker cocked his head so he could study the man who cast another glance towards the goalie. No dilated eyes, no other signs of arousal—just pride. Either this mystery girl wasn't his girlfriend, or there was something really, really wrong with their relationship.

"Do you go to all of her games?" At Foster's inquiry, Peter shrugged.

"She went to all of my games when I was in little league. Besides," he flashed a grin, "treating beautiful women for injuries comes with its advantages."

Foster scoffed at his statement, shaking her head and smiling despite herself. Then, she raised her head as something caught her eye.

"What's she doing?" She pointed towards the goalie, who took off her large, yellow shirt and handed it to a teammate before running to the center line.

Peter gave a mouth shrug. "Oh, sometimes they let her be a forward for the last play. Depends on how far ahead they are."

Loker looked up at the old, battered scoreboard to see that there were only fifty-seven seconds left on the clock.

"Let her?" Loker interjected. He almost felt like he wasn't allowed to speak, but that wasn't the kind of thing to stop him.

"She hates playing goalie, but she's good at it, so she ends up getting stuck there most of the time. Oh," Peter put a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun, "this is where it gets good—don't blink!"

Loker followed Peter's gaze to find the former goalie, who was speaking via body language to a red-head. She pointed to the ball, then herself, then used her other hand to point towards the red-head. Then, she took the finger that was still pointed at her own chest and stretched it out towards a spot on the field near the opposing goal. Finally, she took the hand pointed towards the girl and made it meet her other finger, creating and imaginary triangle between herself, the red-head, and the goal. The red-head nodded in response, and before Loker could make sense of it all, the mystery girl was off.

He watched, half-stunned, as she quickly maneuvered past at least seven opponents and managed to steal the ball like it was just there for her to take. With a powerful kick, she passed the ball to the red-head, then took off towards the goal line. As everyone ran towards the red-head, the former goalie sprinted to the place she had previously pointed to, about twenty feet away from the opposing goal. With a wave of her arms, she signaled for the red-head to kick the ball high in the air, which the brunette mystery girl caught with her upper sternum, dropping it to her feet. Now, with four seconds left on the clock, she made a final sprint towards the goal. By this time, two or three defenders were coming at her, trying to block the shot, but they couldn't match her speed. Without stopping, her right foot connected with the ball, sending it sailing in the air, whizzing past the opposing goalie's head and into the net.

The crowd went nuts. Loker hoped Foster was the kind of woman who kept Excedrin in her purse.

After the teams formed two lines and shook hands, Peter flagged the brunette over to them.

"Gillian!" She screamed into cupped hands, breaking into a run. She made herself calm down when she glanced at Loker. "Or is it Dr. Foster today?"

Foster smiled and patted her on the shoulder. "Good goal, Chris," she said, as proud as Loker had ever seen her. The soccer player gave a humble shrug.

"It didn't matter, we were already up by six."

"Still, it was pretty impressive, wouldn't you say, Loker?" Loker swallowed at being put on the spot. Upon closer inspection, he found that Foster's friend was older than he had originally thought (she looked at least as old as Torres), and that she was somehow even more attractive for her lack of height. The glistening beads of sweat on her glowing, make-up-free face only seemed to enhance her simple, natural beauty. Loker gulped again.

"You girls are hot, I mean, the way you move out there, you're so flexible. The things you could do . . ." He was going to go on, but Foster shot him a look that shut him up.

"Yes, well . . ." Foster sent her eyes down and away, clearly embarrassed by Loker, which puzzled him. Usually, she had a thicker skin. "Christine, I was wondering if you knew about Silas Kasim?" The goalie's eyes lit up.

"Know him? I took a class on him. He's one of my favorite contemporary writers, after all," she said, as if everyone should know who her favorite authors were.

"Great, then we're going to need your help." Foster was beaming. Loker wondered what she was so happy about. She seemed giddy—even for Foster. Everyone at The Lightman Group knew that Foster had been frustrated with the case Silas Kasim was involved with. He was a recluse, the only lead in a series of dead ends, and when he had refused to let anyone in uniform set a foot on his property, the FBI had decided to hand the dirty work off to them.

"You want _me_? To help you on a _case_?" The brunette looked like a six-year-old that had just been allowed to play with the big kids. The shock was obvious on her face when Foster nodded yes, but then her face fell. "Well, Peter and I usually go for pizza after the game . . ."

"It's okay, Chris," Peter said. He nodded when she asked him if he was sure. "We'll do it later, or tomorrow. Besides, that gives me more time to try some pick-up lines on these fine women." Both Christine and Foster rolled their eyes at that. He put a hand on the soccer player's shoulder.

"Call me when you're done, and I'll come and get you, okay?" When she agreed, he grabbed his things and walked off, though not before he shook hands with Loker a second time.

"I don't have professional clothes or anything, just jeans and a t-shirt," Christine admitted.

Foster gave one of her assuring smiles. "I'm sure whatever you have will be fine."

"Well then, just give me ten minutes to change, and I'm all yours."

* * *

A/N: Don't worry—Cal's coming soon! I promise!


	2. Outlines

_Revision_

Chapter Two: Outlines

_April, 2003_

"_Listen, Dr. . . ."_

"_Foster. Dr. Gillian Foster. You can call me Gillian, if you like."_

"_Why, so I'll trust you? I don't."_

"_No, so we can be on equal terms. I'm calling you by your first name, why shouldn't you call me by mine?"_

"_We're not on equal terms."_

"_Hey, let's not get into that again. I've told you the rules: no putting yourself down."_

"_Fine."_

"_So, tell me why you think I'll be upset when you tell me that you're not going to kill yourself."_

"_Listen, Dr. Foster, I'm here because I made an empty threat to end my life. If a lie got me in here in the first place; I'm not going to lie my way out. So when you prescribe me pills, I'll take them. But I'll hate it. And when you ask me questions, I'll answer honestly. But you'll hate me."_

"_I doubt that."_

"_Look, you seem like a nice person, Dr. Foster. You seem nicer than the other guys. But it'll just end up the same. You'll ask me a question, I'll tell you the truth, and you're not going to believe me. You're going to tell me that I'm hallucinating, or in denial, or something. You'll want to fill me full of meds so that I barely know who I am anymore. And then, when it doesn't work, you'll give up on me, just like my family did, just like those other doctors, and I'll be stuck in here forever. So I'm telling you, you don't want to know."_

"_I don't want to know that my patient doesn't want to kill herself? That's the best kind of news I can get, especially if it's true."_

"_I _do_ want to kill myself. I want it more than anything, but I won't. That's not what's going to make you hate me; it's why."_

"_Okay, so why won't you kill yourself?"_

"_You sure about this? I warned you."_

"_I'm sure."_

"_I'm not going to kill myself because God doesn't want me to." _

"_Excuse me?"_

"_See? I told you that you didn't want to know."_

"_Just explain to me what you mean."_

"_'Thou shalt not kill.' Commandment number six. It's pretty self-explanatory."_

"_That's why? A scripture passage?"_

"_Yup. This is where you start to get angry and call me a liar. It's okay, Dr. Foster. It's not new._

"_You know what?" _

"_What?"_

"_I believe you."_

* * *

January, 2010

"So, who are you, exactly?" Loker asked, leaning forward from the back seat of Foster's car. When she hearing his voice, Christine twisted to face him from the passenger seat.

"Christine Hyde, sorry. And you are?" She gave a polite smile.

"Eli Loker. I'm with the Lightman Group. How do you two know each other?"

Christine threw a glance at Foster with a flash of—fear?—before responding.

"Dr. Foster is . . . my mentor." He wondered what she was hiding. "She helped me pick my major, actually." After considering it for a moment, Loker decided not to press the issue.

"And you're majoring in?"

"I'm getting a master's in psychology from Georgetown. But I got my undergrad in English and psychology from Stanford." Loker caught Foster nodding in proud agreement. What was he missing?

"English and psychology, huh? Why'd you choose psychology for grad school?"

"Because there's no such thing as an engologist." That elicited a tiny smile from Loker.

"So, how old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-four," Christine said, the answer as matter-of-fact as the question, which filled Loker with a delighted surprise. She turned to Foster, "Is he always this blunt?"

"Unfortunately."

"Good," Christine stated, her tone confident as she looked back at Loker. "I like blunt."

"Fill us in on what you know," Foster directed as the three of them got out of her car and walked up the uphill gravel path that cut through Silas Kasim's grand estate. Reynolds had managed to get a warrant that got them past the gate, with its security guards and gratuitous rottweilers, but they couldn't find a judge that would give them a legal right to go inside Kasim's house. Even with the warrant, one of the guards had insisted on accompanying them at all times. Christine threw a nervous glance at the woman in uniform, who reminded Loker a little of a girl he'd seen on the soccer field, before answering.

"Well, he's originally from Uganda, but don't let his accent fool you—his native language is English. He emigrated here in his teens to escape the civil unrest and violence there." Loker flinched at Christine's words as he adjusted the video equipment he was carrying. Bad memory. "He has a reputation for being one of the most meticulous authors in history. His most famous work, _Waves of Violence_, went through over one hundred drafts. He also is known for collecting and studying the drafts of other famous books."

"So," Loker said, "he has OCD?" Loker had fished a camera out of his bag and was trying to multi-task between listening to the conversation and discreetly filming the tall and slender guard.

"From what I understand, it was more about a fear of being criticized than it was a need to be perfect. Anyway, he's sixty-four, he's eccentric, he hates, and I mean _hates_, people, and he's written some of the most brilliant prose in American literature." She paused. "He's going to hate my shirt."

Christine looked down at the writing on her sky blue t-shirt, which Loker got his first glance at. It had white lettering that read, "Stand back, I'm going to try science!" Loker choked back a chuckle.

"What else?" Foster prodded like a teacher would a student.

"Well, from a psychological standpoint, his writing indicates that he's incredibly intelligent and therefore has an excellent recall of details and a high amount of creativity. In addition to that, he is averse to strangers to the point of phobia, is emotionally and ideologically unstable, and has an obsession with how he's perceived by others."

"Meaning . . ."

"He's a pretty good liar. And he's a textbook example of C-PTSD," Christine finished.

Loker wasn't sure he'd heard that one before. "C-PTSD?"

"Yeah," the goalie nodded, "complex post-traumatic stress disorder. It's often a result of a severely abusive childhood, and if he grew up in the violence of Uganda, that definitely fits. So, we need to be very careful when we deal with this guy, you know, we need to be gentle and not challenge his sense of self until he feels that he can trust us."

"So, Chris, how do you propose that we get in?" Foster smiled as she asked, obviously pleased with the answers she'd already received.

"Oh, I've got a plan," Christine affirmed. "You just start doing your thing, and I'll jump in when I need to. By the way, you still haven't told me what you're trying to get out of this guy."

"The FBI thinks that he has valuable knowledge in relation to a kidnapping." Foster put her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket as she spoke. "He's not a suspect, but he may have been a witness to the abduction."

Christine furrowed her brow. "A witness? He hasn't left his house in fifteen years. And the kidnapping couldn't have happened at his home, or else it would be a crime scene, and you would have full access to him."

"Very good. The FBI thinks that he was on the phone with the victim at the time of his abduction. All of our other leads have gone cold, and the entire investigation has become entirely dependent on anything he might have heard during the conversation."

"So, basically, if he hadn't won multiple Nobel prizes, the guy would be in an interrogation room somewhere?"

Foster sighed. "Basically."

It had been a long trek from the car, and Loker was more than happy to momentarily shed the bags of stuff he had been carrying as they arrived on Kasim's doorstep. He stood back to get a good look at the house, which was a brown, vine-covered cottage set at the top of the hill. Loker thought it looked like the kind of place that Hansel and Gretel would like to live in, provided they could afford the security detail.

Foster put on her professional face and rapped three times on the door. They waited in silence for a good thirty seconds before Foster knocked again. It wasn't until she tried a fourth time that anything inside of the house stirred, and even then, the door only creaked open an inch to reveal an eye that was staring at them in revulsion.

"No police!" Kasim was almost growling, his exposed eye seeming whiter when contrasted with his dark brown, almost black skin. It took Loker a second before he realized he was talking to the guard, who was standing ten feet behind them.

"Mr. Kasim," Foster said, using her therapist's voice, "we're not police. My name is Dr. Gillian Foster, and we're with the Lightman Group. We just want to ask you a few questions about . . ."

"I'm not going to answer any questions!" Christine had been right; his accent was thick.

"Just a few questions, Sir. You're the only one who can help us find Perdita Greenwood."

"I said, 'I'm not going to answer any questions.'" The tone of his voice told Loker that he was about to slam the door, but just as he was about to . . .

"Are you aware that you have a typo in _Waves of Violence_?" Christine's interjection was bold, but calm. Loker shot her a look. This was her plan? Hadn't she talked about being gentle?

"I have a . . . what?" Kasim swung the door open to reveal a good-looking, imposing African man with white hair, a collared shirt, vest, and khakis. He crossed his arms and glared down at the short brunette, who smiled innocently back at him, cool as a fall breeze.

"It's on page forty-seven. I can show you, if you don't believe me. Do you have a copy handy?"

Kasim shocked both Foster and Loker when he grabbed Christine by the arm and pulled her into the house.

What Loker first noticed as he walked in the doorway were the papers, stacks and stacks of them placed haphazardly against the walls. On closer inspection, he found that the papers were put in uneven bundles, with every visible surface with scribbles over the print. Foster pushed ahead of him, following Kasim and Christine into what appeared to be his study. Here, there were even more stacks of papers, but there were also shelves of books. Kasim pushed Christine onto a brown leather couch and shoved a book into her face, demanding that she back up her assertion.

He then insulted her shirt.

Without thinking, Loker took a tripod out and set it up. He caught a glance at Foster, who seemed conflicted between being afraid for the girl and pleased that they'd finally gotten into Kasim's house. Every chance she got, Christine threw a shallow smile at Foster to show that she was okay, but Loker knew that Foster could see the lack of eye-wrinkling as well as he could, and he wondered if that would just make her more worried than she already was.

"See? Right here. These are two independent clauses, but you've joined it with a comma. That's a comma splice."

Kasim's anger reduced visibly when he examined the sentence in question, and by the time all of the cameras had been set up, his rage had turned to mild embarrassment. Foster looked a lot more comfortable with the situation now.

Loker had never seen two people bond over punctuation before. They hadn't stopped at comma splices; Christine asked him questions on his grammar choices from range of books. Loker was starting to see why Foster had wanted to bring her along.

* * *

Back at the Lightman Group, Loker was downloading all of the footage they'd taken when Torres came up behind him.

"You got in?"

"Yeah," he said, the back of his neck starting to itch. He knew better than to scratch it, not with a natural watching. "Foster brought in a student-friend of hers, and she just talked her way through the door. It was amazing." Loker suddenly felt very uncomfortable at Torres's gaze, and he cleared his throat, a mistake he realized instantly. "So, do you want to help me analyze this footage? By the time we got to questions about the case, he was pretty guarded. We'll probably have to slow down the tape and that scent you're wearing is heavenly."

Torres simply smiled and shook her head at him.

* * *

Foster sat in a chair facing Lightman, who was behind his desk with his feet up, playing with the photos of Emily on his phone.

"So you're okay with it, with her working the case?" Foster left the hesitation in her voice. She was giving Lightman the courtesy of pulling down a few of her walls, hoping he'd do the same in return.

"Of course I'm okay with it. Why wouldn't I be?"

"First of all, because I did it without asking you first, and secondly . . ." She paused, trying to find the words, and giving up. "Well, you know what the second reason is."

"Aren't you always tellin' me that you're a partner in this firm and that you get to make decisions? Besides, what are we payin' her?"

"Nothing."

"Sounds perfect."

"So," Foster repositioned herself in the chair, "you're telling me that you're okay with the fact that I went behind your back and hired Christine. No problems at all."

"That's right."

"Liar."

Lightman put down the phone and faked offense. "Me? Lie to _you_?"

"Come on, Cal. We both know that you're giving me latitude because you don't want to talk about . . . the other thing."

"That was a long time ago, Love. Long time ago."

Foster smirked and walked out of his office, turning back at him as she opened the door.

"Liar," she repeated.

* * *

A/N: A friend of mine is still alive because of what Christine calls "commandment number six." I thought it'd weave that in there in honor of her strength. Anyway, I hope you're enjoying my exploration of what Gillian did pre-Lightman Group. She mentioned in Lack of Candor that she'd counseled FBI agents, and I would love to see that side of her someday.

Tune in tomorrow to find out how Cal fits into Gillian's past!


	3. Backstory

A/N: Thanks so much for the kind reviews, everyone! You guys are awesome!

Chapter Three: Backstory

_April, 2003_

_Dr. Foster's eyes lit up when she saw who was entering her office. She stood up to greet him._

"_Cal."_

"_Foster."_

_He reached out a hand, and she shook it._

"_Thanks for coming, Cal. I could really use a favor."_

_He smiled as he plopped down in the chair. She walked behind her desk and sat to face him._

"_So how's private life?" She could see that he was struggling to answer the question. _

"_Ah, well. Ya know. Startin' a business, it's rough."_

_There were so many things that she wanted to ask him, so many things she'd heard. It seemed that every day, Alec would come home with another sordid tale of Cal's falling out with the U. S. Federal Government. She wanted to hear it all from the source._

"_You know, I was expecting a phone call," she finally said, letting her face show the friendship she wanted him to see. He bowed his head and started fiddling with the buttons on his suit jacket. Hadn't he been the one who taught her what that meant?_

"_Ah, you're not my shrink anymore, Foster. I thought you came here to get away from all that rubbish." _

_Her lip pouted at the idea that Cal thought himself a nuisance. She'd never seen him so down before. The cocky British demeanor was gone, replaced with something that wasn't unlike what she saw in her patients every day: desperation. She felt a stab of guilt, right in her heart._

"_You're right. I'm not your shrink, Cal, but I'm your friend. If you need to talk, or if there's something else you need from me . . ."_

"_This, this is good." He rubbed his hands along the arms of the chair as if she'd just given it to him as a present. "It's good to have someone to help." He looked up at with eyes that begged her to start talking business. She reluctantly agreed to play along._

"_Well, suicides are your specialty, aren't they?" _

"_They are that. Haven't worked a suicide case in a while, though."_

"_I promise, Cal, this one's right up your alley. I have a patient who claims that she's no longer suicidal, and I believe her."_

"_And the problem is?"_

"_I'm trying to get her discharged, but I'm fighting two other colleagues who treated her before she got to me. They disagree with my diagnosis."_

"_I thought you ran this place."_

_She couldn't help but smile at him. To Cal Lightman, everything was easy._

"_It's not that simple, Cal. I'm the senior psychiatrist; I'm not the boss."_

"_Pity." _

_She smiled again, and for the first time, he smiled back. It was good to see that smile again._

"_I'm hoping that you can confirm my findings and back it up with evidence. I really need this, Cal. She's been here for three weeks, and this place is just making her worse."_

"_What's the average time kids spend in this loony bin?"_

"_Three days."_

"_I'll do what I can, Love."_

* * *

January, 2010

In the lab, Loker was hunched over the controls while Torres stood back, her arms crossed, shifting an amused gaze between her co-worker and the video they were analyzing.

"See?" He pointed to the paused video. "At normal speed, he looks fine when asked about Miss Greenwood. No manipulators, no shame or anger, nothing. But when we slow it down . . ."

"Fear," a voice chimed in from the back of the lab. Loker and Torres turned to see that it belonged to Christine. "He's afraid. Scared to death, I think."

"That's right," Loker couldn't help but rub his neck this time. "This is a fear expression that lasted less than a second, what we call a micro-expression."

"Well," Torres stepped in aggressively and shooed Loker away from the controls, "what you probably don't know is _why _he's afraid. When we put his micro-expressions together with what he said, or, what he refused to say, it's clear that he _has_ information, but he's keeping it to himself."

"So, what do you think?" There was a pause, as neither girl was sure whom Loker was addressing. Torres took the lead.

"He's been threatened. The kidnapper is in contact with him, probably asking for a ransom. Maybe Lightman can get more out of him."

"Wait," Christine got closer to Torres and examined her face carefully. "Ria? Flores, right? No, wait." She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Don't tell me . . . Torres? Ria Torres?"

Torres didn't respond, though she made a face that showed her confusion.

"Christine Hyde." She pointed to herself with eyes that expected Torres to recognize her. "Remember? We were in Spanish class together during high school. Freshman year? Mr. Martinez?" Torres shook her head.

"I _did_ take Spanish from Mr. Martinez, but I don't remember you."

"Are you sure?" Christine seemed genuinely perplexed. "I was the only white kid in the class."

"No, sorry."

"Huh. I guess it was a long time ago." She paused, and her eyelids fluttered. "Wait, how do we know that Kasim is connected to the case?"

"The FBI found a cell phone in her house, and he showed up on the phone records at the time they think Greenwood got snatched." Loker had responded when Torres seemed unable to do anything but give Christine a blank stare.

"Was the cell phone in Perdita Greenwood's name?"

"Nope. Registered under a false name, paid in cash." Loker showed the pursed lip look that he normally made when stating facts he didn't like.

"So, a disposable cell."

"Looks that way."

"Okay, that's something." Christine pulled her eyebrows together for a second, deep in thought. "I'll be back," she said suddenly, heading towards the door.

Torres finally managed to say something: "Wh-Where are you going?"

"Research." Foster's friend turned to smile at them before she closed the door behind her.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Torres and Loker tried not to look at each other.

"Well, that was awkward," Torres said, unsettled. "She knew my name." At that, Loker shrugged.

"She seems harmless. You're sure you don't remember her?"

"Pretty sure," Torres replied, but Loker caught the one-sided shrug she leaked. "Let's finish looking at this video."

* * *

Foster was at her desk, going through files while catching up on the news from the monitor on her wall. When Reynolds poked his head in, she grabbed the remote and turned the television off.

"Hey, Ben."

"Gillian." He nodded. "Do you have anything that I can report to the bureau?"

Foster shuffled through a few of her files and frowned. "Maybe. Do we have a warrant for Kasim's phone records yet?"

"No, but we will soon."

"It's possible that he's receiving ransom calls."

"Really?" Nothing made Ben smile quite like probable cause. "Well, that changes things. I'll call it in and see if we can't speed things up a little." Foster was going to turn the TV back on as he left, but she stopped when she saw him hesitate, his face conflicted.

"Just say it, Ben."

"I don't want to stir up trouble, especially with you and Lightman."

"It's okay," Foster sighed, "tell me."

Within moments, Foster was leaning against the doorframe of Lightman's study, watching him as he watched that same old film, like a British Howard Hughes. It hurt her to see him like this, and every part of her wanted so badly to comfort him. The question she often had to ask herself was how to help Cal without going over the line.

"Your mother was beautiful," she said, making her voice soft and comforting. Lightman didn't move.

"Who ratted me out? Was it Torres?"

"Reynolds, actually. I don't know why, but he seems to care about you." At that, he spun around to make sure she was being sarcastic.

"Well, bein' mean to him is fun, innit?" It was then that Gillian knew that she could turn off the film and take a seat.

"I thought you said that you were fine."

"I am."

"So, you're watching this because . . ."

"Just rememberin'." He leaned in to study her face. "I see the guilt, Foster."

"So do I, Cal." Lightman shrugged, and Gillian placed her hand on his arm. He fought to hide how warm it made him feel. If she hadn't done that, and if he hadn't seen the pain in her eyes, maybe he could have told her that she was smothering him and sent her away. Now, he was powerless.

"You brought her on to the case because you thought she'd help, and she has, so that's an end to it."

"I didn't bring her on the case to hurt you. I-" She closed her eyes. "I shouldn't have done it."

Lightman studied her again, then took the hand on his arm and held it between both of his.

"I'm just bein' stubborn, that's all. Don' worry 'bout me." She heard him sigh as he watched his thumbs stroke her fingers. "You should have brought her in before, if she's as good as you say. You shouldn't let me stop you." She wished that he could look up at her, but when he didn't, she took her free hand and ran it through his hair. Just once.

"It's not your fault, you know. Not her, and not your mother."

"It's not your fault either. You seem to forget that bit."

He looked up at her, and she could see how sincere he was. It took her a second before she knew how to respond.

"I think you should talk to Christine, if you feel up to it. I think it'll make you feel better."

"I dunno, Gill. Don' wanna make things worse." Gillian couldn't help but smile when Cal used her first name. It seemed like he hadn't done it in ages.

"She's come a long way since you last saw her, and so have you. She wants to reconcile."

"Are we fightin'?" Cal shot that fake surprise look of his. Gillian chuckled and swatted his arm playfully.

"You know what I mean, Cal. She wants you to forgive her."

"There's nothin' to forgive, Love. You know it."

"I think she wants to hear it from you." Cal's eyes were once again intently focused on her hand, which he still held hostage, and Gillian felt herself let go of a breath.

"Look, you don't have to talk to her, but I think it would be good for both of you. But I'm not going to push you." Cal locked his searching eyes in hers.

"It means that much to you?"

She pulled away and looked down. "It does."

"Well then, I'll give it a go."

Gillian was about to say something when her phone rang, and Cal let her know that it was okay to take it. Slipping her hand out of his, she stood up and answered, too distracted to realize that Cal's eyes never left her. With her back turned to him, she couldn't see the smile that he was unable to squash as he admired yet another of her stunning outfits. She really had no idea how gorgeous she was.

"We've got a warrant," she said, turning around just as Lightman got his usual mask back in place. "They're bringing him here."

* * *

A/N: So, what do you think? Should I post the next chapter, or wait until tomorrow? *evil laugh* Okay, fine; I'll post it.


	4. Titles

Chapter Four: Titles

A single drop of sweat slithered down Silas Kasim's wrinkled forehead as he sat alone in the Cube, the white glass hiding the people watching him. The hot lights were beating down on his skin, and he couldn't stop his heart from racing.

"Wow, this is awesome," Loker exclaimed proudly, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "A guy leaves his house for the first time in fifteen years, and I get to study him. It's like a second Christmas."

"Whatever you say, Loker," Torres said, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw she was stroking her hoop earring with her thumb and two fingers.

"What's wrong?"

Torres saw that her fingers were under scrutiny, and they dropped to her lap.

"Nothing, I just don't see why I'm even here. I mean, where is Lightman?"

"Okay, that was a deflection. And a bad one."

Torres lost a staring contest with Loker before she broke.

"It's that girl. The one who knew me? I just—I know she isn't who she says she is."

"What, can you prove it?" Loker meant it as a joke, but when Torres looked at her lap, his eyes widened. "You _can_ prove it?"

"Remember the Indian sisters who committed suicide?" She waited for Loker to nod. "Lightman had me look through a few of his old tapes after that. Here, let me show you."

With a few taps of the keyboard, she brought up a grainy, black and white surveillance video. The date in the corner indicated that it was almost seven years old. They could only see him from the back, but the man sitting at the table was undoubtedly Dr. Cal Lightman. After a few seconds, a teenaged girl with messy dark hair halfway down her back scuffled in and took a seat. She kept her hands in the pockets of her oversized hoodie, and her head down. Lightman greeted her politely, but she said nothing.

"_Now, you know what I do, right?" The girl didn't raise her head, but kept it face down on the table._

"_You're the lie doctor," she groaned._

"_Right. I'm here to ask you some questions, and if you tell me the truth, I might be able to get you outta here. But, I'm going to need you to look a' me."_

Lightman had to prod her a little until she threw her head up to face him, and the moment she revealed herself to the camera, Torres froze the picture.

"I lied when I said I didn't remember the girl in my class. I do. It was her." She pointed to the rather homely teen in the frame. "_This i_s the girl from my Spanish class. She wore that old sweatshirt every day, and she always had that look on her face." Loker zoomed in on the expression, recognizing it instantly.

"Agony," he said. "She was probably under psychiatric treatment for a suicide attempt."

"She was. That's what Lightman said when he handed me the video. But that girl is _not_ the woman Foster brought in."

Loker took a second to study the face of the girl on the video. With the corners of her lips sagging down towards her lowered jaw, her cheeks stretched upward, and her oblique eyebrows, she had created a perfect picture of sadness. But it was those eyes, those tired, baggy eyes, that were heartbreaking. Hopeless. Suffering. Those eyes were nothing like the eyes of the upbeat, youthful girl he had so recently met.

"There are similarities, but you're right, they look nothing alike. It's night and day."

"And don't you think that it's odd that as soon as we've got a good lead on this case, some stranger swoops in and solves all of our problems? Isn't it possible that she's pretending to be someone she's not so she can send us in the wrong direction? She could just be using the identity of someone from Lightman's old case as a way in, thinking that telling the story about Spanish class would get me to trust her." Torres rubbed her temples. "You know she's been avoiding Lightman all day, maybe that's because she knows that he'll see her for what she is."

"What, you think that she's working for the kidnappers? I don't know, Torres, that sounds a bit far-fetched. Besides, Foster's hard to fool; I should know."

"All I know for sure is that the girl in that video is Christine Hyde, and that Foster's friend isn't."

"So, what do we do, tell Lightman?"

Torres thought for a moment, and Loker could sense the hesitation. Torres wasn't a tattle-tale, but if the stakes were high, would she expose the impostor? Loker mentally slapped himself. Of course she would. She hated liars. She almost called out Foster's ex-husband, for heaven's sake.

"No," Torres answered, her brow determined, "first we prove it, then we tell him."

"How do we do that?"

"I've got an idea."

They sat conspiring for a moment, and had just concocted a plan when Lightman burst through the door.

"Oi, Torres!"

Torres jumped up and followed Lightman into the Cube.

* * *

"Gillian!" Christine opened the door to Foster's office and hurried in, clutching a stack of books. "She's Mother Earth!"

"What?" Foster watched the girl in surprise as she threw herself into the seat opposite Foster and put the books on the desk with a _thud!_ "Where have you been all day?"

"The bookstore, down the street," she panted, "I ran, all the way." She threw her head back to catch her breath and cool her red face.

"That's half a mile! You sprinted all that way to tell me something about Mother Earth?" Foster grinned. "You've heard of the phone, right?"

"Well, yes," Christine admitted, her breathing returning to normal. "I probably should have called, but I was so excited when I found out."

"Found out what?" Foster was getting more confused by the minute.

"Okay, so I had a hunch, and I went to the bookstore to make sure. In Kasim's work, he tends to refer to a character he calls Mother Earth."

Foster's eyebrows shot up. "The archetype?"

"Well, most scholars think that's what it is. He talks a lot about nature in his books, and in his early work, nature represented the primal, evil side of mankind. However, this changed just before he went into seclusion. Since then, most of his characters live far away from technology, and he tends to use civilization as a metaphor for corruption."

"He completely reversed his ideology."

"Right, which is consistent with the symptoms of C-PTSD. He's written six books since the switch, each getting more and more nature-centric, with Mother Earth being referenced with increasing frequency. In the last book, she's actually a character who heals the protagonist and acts as a protector and even a romantic interest. Most people look at this and see an ideology, but when I read it, I wondered if it was a person."

"A real person?"

Christine nodded in reply. "Authors do it all the time, often without even realizing it. They fictionalize someone important in their lives. Charles Dickens did it constantly," she said, picking up on of the books she'd brought in. "I went through and highlighted every time Mother Earth appears or is referenced in his works."

"You went and bought all of these books?" Foster grabbed a copy and thumbed through it.

"They're used," Christine defended. "Anyway, I think Mother Earth is a fictionalized version of Perdita Greenwood. She could be Kasim's Thomas Wentworth Higginson."

"Who?"

"Oh, sorry. Correspondent to Emily Dickinson, another literary genius in seclusion. She wrote to him for decades, until her death in 1886. She sent him poems, and he helped her edit them."

"Greenwood _was_ a publisher," Foster said, considering Christine's words.

"I know, I looked at the file. Besides, Greenwood? Mother Earth? That can't be a coincidence. Also, the personalities of both women are remarkably similar, _and_ it looks like she called him with a disposable cell. It was probably the last in a series of phones they used to talk to each other. Kasim went into seclusion when his work made him too famous, so it would make sense for him to want to keep any relationship private."

"It would also explain why the kidnappers would call him and ask for a ransom." Foster's eyes widened as the pieces fit together in her head. "We've got to tell Lightman."

* * *

Lightman wasn't letting it show, but Loker had seen enough interrogations to know when one wasn't going anywhere. With the Cube's walls opaque, Loker focused one of the cameras on his boss until Foster appeared at the door behind Lightman, beckoning her partner to join her in the hallway. At almost the same moment, Christine walked in behind Loker.

"He can't see me, right?" she asked, taking a seat next to him. Part of his conversation with Torres flashed through his mind before he answered in the affirmative.

After Lightman returned to the Cube, Christine filled Loker in on what she had discovered about Kasim and Greenwood. It was interesting to see the master change tactics as Lightman started asking his subject about Mother Earth, Torres observing patiently.

"So, do you want to go out with me?" Loker blurted. Christine, who had been focused on the interrogation, jumped at the sound of his voice.

"I'm sorry?"

"I thought you liked blunt," he teased. She laughed at his mischievous smile.

"Well, there's blunt, and then there's blunt force trauma. I think your question was a verbal two by four to the head."

He smiled again. "So, does that mean you won't go out with me?"

Christine took a few seconds to think about how to word her reply.

"I don't really think that I'm your type." He saw no shame as she answered—she said them as if she were describing the weather. But there was something else, a vulnerability he couldn't quite put his finger on. Was she just shy about being asked, or was she afraid that he'd figure out who she really was?

"Why? Are you gay?"

"Wow, _that's_ blunt." She released an awkward giggle. "I'm not, just to be clear." She shook her head to hide her blushing cheeks. "My guess is that you wouldn't want a date with me. I think that you're a little more interested in your co-worker over there." She nodded in Torres's direction. Then came the shame, etched all over her face.

Loker shook his head. "I think that you misjudge me."

"Yeah?"

"It's not often that I find a woman who speaks her mind, and most of them aren't hot soccer chicks." That elicited more laughter from Christine.

"Well, I appreciate the compliment, I do. I think you're pretty attractive yourself. I just don't think it's a good idea."

Loker's posture visibly deflated. Sure, Torres _had_ put him up to asking her out as part of the plan to expose her as an impostor, but it's not like spending an evening with any woman was a chore.

"So your answer is no?" He couldn't believe it. Christine shrugged. "Why not?"

"Can I be as blunt with you as you are with me?"

"Of course."

Christine closed her eyes in an expression of pain, and Loker instantly knew he was in for a world of hurt.

"Well, first of all, I'm serious when I say that you and Ria have a thing going on. She's been shooting daggers at me since I got here."

"Maybe she just doesn't like you," Loker offered, instantly wishing he could take it back. That's not the thing you say to a woman you're trying to take on a date.

"No, I know a jealous girl when I see one. Has she ever expressed romantic interest in you?"

"Well, not directly, but . . ."

"And has she told you that I'm some evil creature from the bowels of Hades?"

"Something like that."

"Yeah, she's into you. I wouldn't tell her, though."

Now, Loker was sure what to think. Was Christine an impostor, or had Torres made it all up out of jealousy? Could it be both?

"Wait, what were the other reasons?"

"Well," she gave a shy smile, "second, you were asking me out because she put you up to it, right? To prove whatever she said about me?" He gave a sheepish look, and she knew she was right. "And third, I find the way you objectify and sexualize women somewhat offensive. Funny, but offensive."

"Wow," he replied, that promised wave of pain washing over him.

"Blunt," they said in unison.

* * *

A/N: Do you think Torres is right about Christine? Feel free to discuss.

Tune in tomorrow, when Foster discovers something crucial about the ransom calls, and Loker royally screws up!


	5. Criticism

A/N: You guys are way too nice to me, thanks for the reviews! And don't worry; I have a plan for how this all works out, and I promise that you'll plenty of backstory in chapter six.

Chapter Five: Criticism

"So? What can I tell my boss about Kasim?" Ben Reynolds had no time to waste with small talk. With kidnappings, the longer it took to solve the case, the more likely the trail of clues would lead to a corpse.

"He's agreed to show you tapes of the ransom calls, how's that?" Lightman couldn't help but grin. As soon as he'd told Silas Kasim that he was aware of his relationship with Perdita Greenwood, and Lightman had guessed that the relationship was a romantic one, the man had broken like a poorly-designed dam. He was sure the case would be closed soon. Something he noticed out of the corner of his eye broke his train of thought, and he poked his head out the door, peering into the hallway.

"Oi! Loker!"

Loker spun on his heels and turned to him with a look of genuine surprise as Lightman stalked over.

"Is there somethin' you'd like to tell me?"

"Uh, no?"

Sometimes, when he wasn't mooning over how brilliant Lightman was, a small part of Loker wished that someone could read Lightman the way that he read everybody else. How would he like the feeling of eyes raking over his face, knowing those eyes were cataloguing every muscle, every movement? How would the great Dr. Cal Lightman appreciate it if someone else saw him not as a person, but as an amalgamation of expressions? Did Lightman even remember what a human being was?

"Why don't you try that again?" The raking eyes got an inch away from their target, and Loker took a step back.

"There's nothing that I _want_ to tell you."

"So that's how it's gonna work, eh?" A twitch of disgust. "Spill it."

So many times in his life, people had told Loker what being a man was. His father, his little league coach, even a few girls he'd dated. Being a man was about standing your ground and facing the daunting reality of life. It was about being bold despite the circumstances, despite the person standing in front of you. In a way, radical honesty was Loker's way of being a man—telling the truth that cowards wouldn't. Every time he told the truth, he felt heroic.

Except now.

Torres was right—he really did let Lightman push him around. Lightman asked for the impossible, and when, after jumping through fiery hoops and climbing Everests to achieve the impossible, he was lucky if Lightman noticed. That's the kind of boss Lightman was, even Jack Radar knew that. And yet, just like Torres said, Loker caved. Every time.

So he told Lightman everything, about the video, about Torres's suspicions, and about Christine hoping Lightman couldn't see her. It sounded so silly when the words came off of his own tongue. How could Foster actually bring an impostor in on a case?

"That, by far, is the biggest piece of rubbish I've ever heard."

He was probably right. Maybe Torres was just jealous. Loker zero, Lightman fifty-five.

"Why don't you start working for a change, eh Loker?"

Loker wasn't even given time to respond before he found himself alone again.

And then he realized that Heidi had witnessed the entire thing. Lightman fifty-six.

* * *

"We've got the ransom tapes," Foster greeted as Lightman entered the lab. A graphic representation of the audio was projected on the wall. A glance at Reynolds told him that she'd already gone through them.

"And?"

"Why don't you listen for yourself?"

He wondered why she wouldn't just tell him. Did she think he didn't trust her? Was she trying to spare his feelings? Maybe she just felt guilty. Only Foster would feel criminal about being better at audio deception detection than the man who invented it.

He took a breath and started the recording.

"Silas Kasim," the computerized voice dictated, "bring three million dollars in unmarked bills to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. You have three days before she dies."

Lightman stood and cocked his head at the projection as if doing so would make it come to life.

"And they're all like this?"

"Pretty much." Reynolds leaned against the table with his arms crossed. "The call was placed two days ago, so the drop's tomorrow. It's your standard ransom call, if you ask me."

"Well, we aren't asking you, are we?"

Foster muttered a scolding "Cal" under her breath at that remark. He let the right corner of his mouth smile, just a bit. And maybe he admired her red dress, a little.

"The words are standard, but," he raised a finger in the air, "it's the intonation that Foster finds int'resting."

Reynolds looked to Foster for an explanation, which, as usual, she seemed reluctant to give. Why?

"Well," she started, "the scrambler hides the caller's identity, but the stress on the individual words tells us what the caller values the most. In most cases, the most stress is put on the amount of money, but here . . ."

"All of the stress is at equal levels." Lightman didn't realize that he had stolen her thunder until the words had already escaped. Maybe that was why she hadn't offered the information in the first place.

"So, he cares about it all equally," Reynolds said.

"Or," Foster offered politely, though she and Lightman both knew he was as dead wrong as usual, "she cares about none of it. Not the ransom, not the location, not the amount of time . . . it doesn't fit with a ransom call."

"So it's not a ransom call?" Reynolds asked.

"She?" Lightman shot a confused look at his partner.

"Yes, Ben," Foster said, eying Lightman, "whoever called is trying to throw us off. Greenwood might not have been kidnapped in the first place, or she's being held for another purpose."

"_She_?"

"Just a hunch." She rolled her eyes at him.

"There's no way you coulda known that."

As Reynolds called it in, Foster sighed. She started to say something, then thought better of it.

"Okay," Reynolds snapped his phone shut and began walking out. "If it's not a kidnapping, then we're either looking at a murder or a runaway, which means more digging. But just in case, we're still going to do the ransom drop tomorrow as planned." As he shut the door behind him, Foster and Lightman eyed each other.

"Cal, just let it go."

"I'll bet you fifty bucks it's _not _a woman."

She sighed again. Every once in a while, she missed working at that mental hospital. Almost. He'd have to pay for that.

Stiffening her posture, she returned his gaze the way it came, making it just as invasive, just as piercing. She forced herself to just look at the muscles, ignoring the man. Foster waited until her face was cold and expressionless, opting to catalogue his eyes instead of look into them.

Then, when the slightest twitch showed how unsettled she'd made him, she melted into a warm smile. They were even.

"Okay, Cal. Fifty it is."

* * *

"Hey."

Christine looked up from a binder of papers when she heard Foster's voice.

"We haven't had a chance to catch up yet," Foster said, taking a seat next to the brunette at the break room table.

Christine frowned at the binder. "I'm trying to edit my thesis. I've gone through I don't know how many drafts, and I have to show it to my advisor next week." She gave a look of disgust at the papers before setting it aside and turning back to Foster. "I thought you were working on a case."

"We're at the part where we've done all we can, and we have to wait for the FBI to find more evidence for us to analyze." Foster picked up the binder and looked through it, smiling at the scribbles that now populated every page. "But enough about work. How's soccer?"

"It's good. Not perfect, but good. Thanks for suggesting it."

"Peter told me that they keep making you play goalie." She looked up to find her young friend mulling over her response.

"Have you ever been good at something, and wished you weren't?"

That question was a tricky one. Reading people, as counterintuitive as it seemed, complicated many things. There was more than one time that the truth had gotten in the way of her happiness, and sometimes, she had let her happiness get in the way of the truth. Most days, she wasn't sure which to pick. Had it been better for her to ignore the lies and make herself believe that Alec's drug addiction wouldn't come back, or that his so-called sponsor was just interested in her husband's mental health? Or should she have used Cal's method and searched him for clues and called him out at the beginning? It was somewhat poetic: Cal's marriage was destroyed because of his obsession with the truth; hers was desecrated because of her desperation for happiness. In the end, neither she nor Cal had gotten what they'd wanted.

But that wasn't the question she'd been asked. Community soccer wasn't exactly on par with infidelity and divorce. Better to redirect the question than answer it.

"You don't like being a goalie?"

"You know me—I like my freedom. I don't like being trapped in the goalie box. I don't even get to play until someone makes a mistake." She paused. "But you didn't answer my question, Gill. You're treating me like a patient."

"Sorry. Let's see, what don't I like being good at?" The look in Christine's eyes told her that she was expected to think of something good. "Well, being the responsible one can get tiring after a while. I always end up getting stuck with the expense reports."

"Exactly. I mean, I guess it's good for me, in the end. It means they trust me, and I'm a lot happier than I've been in a long time."

"That's good to hear, Chris." Really good. "How's grad school?"

"Challenging. Time-consuming. But, what about you? Are you happy?"

Gillian was shocked a bit at the question. Perhaps asking her to spend so much time with Loker wasn't that great of an idea.

"I, uh . . ." Was she? The past few months had been a roller coaster, from DID to suicidal intent, Afghanistan to Vegas. But there had been some good moments, too. She had saved a woman from spiritual slavery, and shared leftover turkey with Cal. Most importantly, she came home to a place that was just her own, where no one tried to hide his stash when she walked in the door, or made excuse after excuse about being late. That was, perhaps, the best part of her life now.

"I guess I'm getting there." She was careful to accompany the words with a smile. Christine looked down and picked at her fingers.

"I probably shouldn't bring this up, but I've noticed that you've stopped relying on comfort foods. It used to be that every time I saw you, you were slurping or munching something. Now, not so much. I take that as a good sign."

Gillian hadn't thought about it that way before, but looking at the past, she supposed that it was true. When was the last time she'd binged? Right: Vegas.

"And you're dating again, right?"

"Christine . . ."

"What? You always ask me if I'm dating someone, and I always say, 'No.' It's only fair that I get to ask you the same question, isn't it?"

Gillian's smile was simultaneously amused and shy. "No, Chris. I'm not dating anybody. We're in the same boat now."

The grad student tried a little too hard to seem innocent. "You know, it must be hard for a human lie detector to date. I always thought a person like you would need someone who could read you as well as you could read him. Otherwise, it's hard to stay on equal ground."

"Now _I _feel like the patient."

Christine opened her mouth to speak when a head poked in the door.

"Chris? You ready?" Peter took a second to notice the room's second occupant. "Hi, Gillian. Is she behaving?"

Gillian turned in time to see an eye roll that Emily would be proud of.

"She's been a lot of help today, actually," she said, first patting her young friend on the shoulder.

"I just need to get my things together," Christine said. "Can you wait in the car?"

"Sure. I was going to go talk to that cute receptionist anyway. See ya, Gill."

Gillian said goodbye and, when they were alone again, tried to restart the previous conversation.

"You know, if you really want your freedom, you need to get your own car."

Gillian watched as Christine looked down and gave an embarrassed smile.

"I have to get a driver's license first."

"You don't have your license yet?"

"Well," Christine said, "I told you my mom wouldn't let me get it in high school—we fought too much. Then, it was hard to get someone to teach me while I was at school out of state."

"And now?"

"Peter's giving me lessons."

"He seems like a good brother."

Christine's head hadn't come up yet, and didn't look like it would soon.

"He's really worried about me, still. Peter forgets that I get revised as often as my thesis. The me that he's afraid of was a couple drafts ago. Yet, he finds an excuse to be everywhere I am, like he's waiting for me to go back to the way I was." She wiped the melancholy off of her face, grabbed her things, and stood up. "Well, I'd better go save your receptionist. I'll see you tomorrow." With a forced smile, she headed towards the door.

"Christine?"

"Yeah?"

"I know better than to think you'll go back. I know you won't."

"Thanks, Gill. That means a lot."


	6. Exposition

Chapter 6: Exposition

_April, 2003_

"_Now, you know what I do, right?" The girl didn't raise her head, but kept it face down on the table._

"_You're the lie doctor," she groaned._

"_Right. I'm here to ask you some questions, and if you tell me the truth, I might be able to get you outta here. But, I'm going to need you to look a' me."_

_She lifted her head, but her eyes stayed down and away._

"_So, my friend tells me that you're cured."_

"_I'm not cured—I have lots of problems. Dr. Foster knows that."_

"_Then, why does she tell me that she wants you discharged?"_

_She took in a deep breath and let it out. Anyone could tell that she was sad, but he thought he could see something else, a hint of what Foster must have seen. _

"_Because I don't belong here."_

"_Oh, yeah? Why's that?"_

"_This place is for people who are a danger to themselves or others. I'm not."_

"_You could have fooled me."_

_It was a lie, of course. It was one of his tactics: say something offensive, get a reaction. Tell the suicidal girl that you have no faith in her, see if she gets angry. He should have expected her to raise her eyes to meet his, but he didn't. Then, there they were—brown and hurt. That pain, he'd seen before. _

_He thought he'd forgotten._

_It was the kind of pain he'd hoped he would never see again. That was a kind of pain a woman had when everyone had failed her, and she blamed herself. When she felt like her presence was poisoning the world. When she was alone raising her children, and the man who named them only stopped by on his own birthday. When you had to make a holiday out of the arrival of a man who did nothing but make you feel worthless. _

"_I'm hurting you." The voice was that of pure horror, and Lightman was so lost in his memories that wasn't sure at first where it was coming from. _

_Then he looked back into her eyes. _

_There had just been so much going on—the fiasco at the Pentagon, fights with Zoe—it seemed the whole world was against him. He hadn't had the courage to tell Foster that she was the only one still willing to hire him, and that he desperately needed this job to restore his credibility. So, for just a moment, he dropped his mask. For a second, the look in the teenager's eyes reminded him of . . . well, things he shouldn't think about, not here. And for that short time, he lost control. _

_And she'd caught it._

_People with depression weren't very good at reading people. They lived in an alternate dimension from the rest of humanity, where everything went wrong and there was no hope of happiness. But a person who sees agony every day in the mirror will recognize it on another face like a shark senses blood in the water. _

"_I'm hurting you!" she repeated, her voice turning from horror to panic. She stood up so fast that the chair tipped over._

"_Wait . . ."_

"_I'm not going to do this. No."_

"_Wait, I'm tryin' to help you."_

_She had been thrown into the kind of frenzy that you would expect from a horse in a burning barn. She backed herself against the door and shook her head violently as she tried to open the door. When she couldn't turn the handle, she begged to be let out. Lightman stood at the table, unsure of what to do._

_But then, she was well-acquainted with sorrow. It would have been her constant companion. Her brain had been telling her that she was ruining the lives of everyone around her, so of course, seeing him react had frightened her. Horrified her, even. _

_He should have known better. He should have been in control._

_She wasn't even out the door before her rescuer came. From where he was, he could only see the arms wrapped tightly around her, but he knew they belonged to Foster. He knew that she was cradling the girl like a baby, whispering things into her ear that would help her calm down. He couldn't hear what Foster was saying, but he could hear the girl asking what was wrong with him, telling Foster that she didn't want anything to do with him if she was going to cause him pain. Not even if he was her ticket out._

_He wanted to bury himself under a mountain._

_Her red, wet eyes turned back to look at him just as a single tear escaped and darted down his cheek. Then, she was gone._

* * *

January, 2010

With the morning came the ransom drop, and though Lightman and Foster were convinced that nothing would come of it, Reynolds had insisted that they watch the video feed. It wasn't until Kasim had been waiting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial for a full two hours, duffel bags of cash in hand, that Reynolds called Kasim's security guards off and let the poor guy go back for more questioning.

"I think," Foster said, looking thoughtful in the chair facing Lightman's desk, "that the ransom note is the key to this whole investigation. If we can figure out who is trying to fake the kidnapping, then we can find Greenwood."

"Or, it could be another dead end." Lightman had leaned back all the way in his chair, but he hadn't taken his eyes off of her. "It could be that someone heard that she was going to run off and took advantage of the situation, then gave up when the FBI got involved."

"But why would you have to run away from a man who never left his house? That's the part that doesn't make sense. We're just not asking the right questions. We should be asking why a person would ask for a ransom that she didn't want."

"You're still on that, are you?"

"It could be a woman, Cal," Foster said, her voice betraying the annoyance she was trying to hide.

"If you say so." That earned him an eye roll, which he enjoyed thoroughly. He started to get up, when . . .

"Would you do it?"

He flopped back down.

"Do what?"

"Have a romantic relationship with someone that was strictly over the phone. As far as they could tell, she never once visited his house."

Lightman was saved from answering by Torres, who needed Foster's help with a new client. Alone, he laced his fingers behind his head and put his feet on the desk. Would he? Would he stick around a woman he could never hold? Would he torture himself by loving someone from the other side of a window pane? Or was it even possible that a man could be so helplessly devoted to one woman that he would settle for a relationship that would never be physical, just so he could smell her hair when she was in the elevator, or so she could brush against his jacket in the doorway?

Never.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Lightman got upset when I told him. Said the idea was stupid."

Loker tried desperately to play off the shame he felt. It seemed that everything was going wrong for him this week, from asking Christine out and getting shot down by Lightman. The worst part, of course, was explaining it to Torres. In order to avoid her gaze, he cast a glance to the view screen, which was showing the beginning of the video from Kasim's house.

"I can't believe that you just let him manipulate you like that," She didn't even give him the decency of trying to hide her anger. "He just plays you like a violin, doesn't he?"

"Well, it's not like he's never pushed your buttons before. He pushes everybody's buttons." He crossed his arms defensively.

"Who's pushing whose buttons?"

They were both unsure of how to react when they heard Foster's voice coming from the back of the lab. She walked towards them with a resolved look that Loker knew well. There was no way he was going to spill the same beans twice.

"How well do you know Christine?" Torres's question came off as more accusatory than she'd meant it. "We . . ." Loker poked her in the ribs with his elbow, "_I_ don't think she is who she claims to be."

"You think that Christine Hyde is an impostor." Foster was not amused. When Torres nodded, her boss's lips thinned, and her brow lowered a fraction of an inch. "You think that I brought a criminal in on an FBI case?"

"It's just . . . she said that she knew me, but the girl I knew was on a tape talking to Lightman. They look nothing alike, and she and Lightman have been avoiding each other. It doesn't make any sense."

"They _are _the same person."

"How do you know? You didn't see that tape."

"I don't need to see the tape, Ria. I was the one who sent her to Lightman." A look of realization dawned on Torres's face as Foster came closer and looked Lightman's protégé in the eye.

"When he tells you to watch the expressions, remember that when you stop seeing the person, you stop seeing the truth. A severely depressed teenager is going to look a lot different from a healthy woman. If you can't see that, then I have to wonder what else you're missing."

The silence that permeated the room was chilling. When neither Loker or Torres dared speak, Foster shot them a look of severe disappointment and left the room. The two employees tried not to make eye contact.

Loker looked back down at the Kasim video again, but this time, his eyebrows shot up.

"Whoa."

"What is it?"

"I think I just solved the case."

* * *

Foster walked into Lightman's office without bothering to knock and was inches away from his desk when he looked up.

"Cal?"

"Yes, Love?"

"I think that this charade is getting a bit ridiculous, don't you?"

Lightman was helpless when his eyebrows lurched upward and his mouth dropped. On the night that she had told him she was divorcing Alec, he had dreamed of her saying those exact words.

"You've been avoiding the issue for too long. I know that you've been stepping around it because you're afraid of how I'm going to react, but you should know me better than that. You should know that it's okay to talk to me about your feelings, whatever they may be. And if you can't talk to _me_, can't you find another way of expressing yourself?"

Cal's mouth tried to respond, but his brain was too busy thinking of ways he could express himself to her.

"She's in my office. Just go talk to her, will you? I can't stand this anymore."

He sat there, his mouth still wide open, long after she had left him there.

What just happened?

* * *

_April, 2003_

_Dr. Foster poked her head through the door and saw Cal sitting there, drumming his hands on the arm of the chair. He must not have heard her come in, which gave her a rare opportunity to observe him unguarded. He had his back to her, but his head was down, his shoulders were hunched forward, and he looked so tired. When she couldn't stand seeing it anymore, she creaked open the door and walked into her office._

"_I talked to her, Cal. I think she's ready to see you."_

"_You sure? It's only been a half-hour." _

"_She's stronger than you think." She dreaded the words she had to say next: "I told her about your mum."_

"_Right." He tried to play it off like it was the obvious thing to do, but she knew it made him feel like he was paying penance._

_How long had she known Christine? A week? She had prepared a lie, something that would explain the situation without exposing Cal. Yet when she had been standing there, cradling the teen in her arms, there was something about it that felt so natural. It was like Christine belonged to her, and it was Gillian's function in life to comfort her. For the first time since she'd taken this job, she felt good about what she was doing. So, she told her everything._

_Foster went over to her friend and put a hand on his shoulder._

"_Don't worry, Cal. I trust her."_

"_It's okay."_

"_Cal, I promise you, it was the only way."_

"_It's alright."_

_The second interview went much better than the first. It was brief and professional, and Lightman thought it best to avoid playing games this time._

"_So, what do you think it's going to be like, on the outside?"_

_Christine shrugged. _

"_Hard," she finally admitted, "I have a lot of work to do if I want to be free of my depression. I'm going off my meds, so it's going to be a challenge."_

"_No meds, eh? Seems pretty daft for a depressive to be off meds, if you ask me."_

_Christine shook her head in disgust. _

"_I hate them. I hate having a chemical inside of me that tells me how to feel. I hate the idea of being dependent on it for the rest of my life. If I'm going to be free of the way I feel, I'm not going to do it by becoming captive to something else. So I made a deal with Dr. Foster: when I get out, she'll take me off of my meds if I call her once a week." _

"_Once a week, you say?" He looked up to the two-way mirror where he knew Foster was hiding. What on Earth was she doing, making a deal like that? "Sounds like another kind of captivity to me."_

_Christine looked down, picking at her fingers._

"_I don't mind. I like her. She's the only person in this whole place who cares. It's like, even though she sees the bad things you've done, she can still see the good person inside of you. I just feel so bad for her."_

"_Bad for Foster?" He sent a questioning glance to the mirror, trying to decide whether to squash this tangent or let it continue._

"_Yeah, I mean, she hates this place. I would, too; everyone she works with is a jerk, and being surrounded by suicidal teens has got to be torture."_

"_Why do you care about Foster? She's a grown woman. Why bother with a lousy psychiatrist?" He regretted the words as soon as he said them—he could see that he'd touched a nerve, and that wasn't where he needed to go right now._

"_Of course I care about her!" Her tone was defensive and contentious."She's getting me out of here. And you're one to talk. You're in love with her."_

"_Excuse me?" Lightman absentmindedly rubbed his wedding ring with his thumb and tried not to look at that mirror. What look was he supposed to have on his face? Surprise? Disgust? No, no need to insult the woman, who he now hoped had stepped out for coffee._

"_You're in love with Dr. Foster; I saw you two in the hallway. If you really care about her, you'll convince her to get out of here."_

_Lightman didn't know what to do but end the interview then and there. After all, hadn't he gotten what he needed? Now he could go home, check the tapes (slowed down, just to be sure), and get his report ready for the next day. And he would make sure to kiss Zoe. Twice._

_He _really_ hoped that Foster wasn't watching._

* * *

A/N: Next chapter: A confrontation in Foster's office, and a puzzle finished in the lab. Can you solve the case before then?


	7. Climax

Chapter 7: Climax

Lightman had fidgeted in his office for a good ten minutes before shooting up from his desk and making his way towards Foster's office. When he opened the door, there she was: wearing jeans and another one of those silly t-shirts. This one was purple and read, "Live Loud." One of these days, Foster had to take this poor girl shopping.

She turned at the sound of the door opening, and tried to mask her fear with a smile.

"This is a nice place you've got here." She gave him time to respond, and when he didn't, she found more words to put into her mouth. "I was here before. You were out of town on business, and I got a grand tour. You know, most people can't get away with putting up tons of pictures of themselves in their own office, so congratulations."

He smiled. "I've redecorated. Loker's comments got a bit irritating."

"So," she said, "does Gillian know _all_ of your secrets?"

"Does she know all of yours?"

"All the ones worth knowing. Will you please answer the question?"

Please? Was he on a game show? Well, she _had_ done him the favor of making the first move, and she _was_ trying to be polite.

"Not even close. A man my age has loads of secrets."

She let the answer hang in the air for a bit before picking up the conversation.

"I have a proposal: you tell me some of your secrets, and I'll tell you some of mine. That way, we can do whatever Gillian is trying to get us to do as quickly as possible."

He scoffed at that. Her? Learn some of _his_ secrets? They'd make her head explode.

"A lot of the work I do is classified."

She wasn't thrown off at all. "I'm not asking for trade secrets, Dr. Lightman. Just ask me a personal question, and we'll see how it goes from there."

He thought about all of the things Foster had told him about Christine over the years. Was she the sort to be trusted? Of course, there was one thing he'd been curious about.

"What I couldn't figure out was why you don't have the same name as your own brother."

She smiled, apparently thankful that she'd been asked an easy one.

"Well, Foreman is my dad's last name, and Hyde was my mother's. They split up when I was little. They couldn't agree on custody, so we made it simple."

"That bad, eh?"

Lightman caught a mouth shrug before she answered.

"I was really young. I didn't really understand what was going on; I just remember a lot of yelling." She let go of a painful sigh. "You know, the strangest thing about my depression was that it brought my parents back together. It wasn't until I went to the hospital that my mother finally admitted that I'd inherited my mental illness from her and got treated. They get along great now."

The awkward silence that filled the room was heavy. The young woman's eyes darted around the room, as if searching for a new subject to talk about. When Foster appeared through the glass walls and waved as she walked past, both parties found relief. Christine was the first to speak.

"Foster is such a good name for her, don't you think? It describes her so well, how she takes care of people. Yours is pretty fitting, too. It's pretty poetic, actually."

His lips tightened. "Lightman's not my real name."

"What, are you a spy?"

Her question came with bright eyes and an amused smile that deflated when she saw Lightman staring at the floor.

"Well, it's my legal name, but it's not the one I was born with. My father's name was Mason. When my mother died, I changed it to her maiden name."

"Doesn't surprise me. You really loved her. "

She paused before asking the one thing she really wanted to know.

"Are you still in love with Gillian?"

Lightman was hoping for another bout of silence.

"I won't say anything, I promise. She wouldn't believe me, anyway." She tried to look into his eyes, but he wouldn't let her. "Sorry, I know I'm prying. It's just, it _has _been months since she got divorced."

Lightman didn't stop looking straight ahead, though his legs were twitching and he was fighting the urge to run.

"Look," she said, realizing the conversation was turning into more of a halting monologue, "you have so much leverage on me that there's no way I'm not going to keep it between us. Besides, I'm trustworthy. Gillian says so."

"And you think that means that you can poke around in somethin' that's none of your business?"

"Oh, come on. I know you love her. I could see it back then, and I see it now. You didn't act on it before, and I'm glad that you didn't."

"We were both married then." That's why her name was really appropriate. That's why he'd forced himself to use it, no matter what she called him back. He had to remind himself that she was Foster's girl.

"Right. That's why I'm glad you didn't; marriage is sacred. You two are both fiercely loyal, which is why you work so well together. But I won't pretend like I didn't see the temptation."

"It's not what you think." Why was he saying this to a woman he barely knew? Why did he feel the need to explain himself to her?

"She's affectionate to me because she misses him."

"Who, Alec?" Lightman answered the question with a confidant nod, but Christine's whole face objected.

"She's moved on. I'm sure of that. It took her a while to let go, but the second she signed those divorce papers, it was over. And after all the stuff he put her through . . . she's too smart to ever let him in again."

Lightman let go of a breath and kept shaking his head.

"You've never been married, you don't know what it's like. You get so used to that body lying next to you in bed, to the kisses on your way out the door, and when it's over, you miss it. Even when you hate your ex, you miss it. So, you try to find it somewhere else. That's what she's done." He let a deep breath go in and out. "I'm a stand-in."

As much as it hurt, it was also a relief to finally say the words. And after all, Christine had already seen him at his worst, and he'd seen her at hers. As uncomfortable and brief as their previous experience had been, it seemed to have forged a bond between them that they weren't aware of until now.

"But she cares about you. That much is easy to see."

"She _takes care_ of me. That's diff'rent. You're too young, you don't understand."

"Then tell me."

"When I met her, it was a lot like when she met you. I was her patient first, her friend after. Gillian Foster has spent every second since then taking care of me. I fall, she picks me up. Every time."

The expression on the woman's face was more than compassion. It was empathy. He'd forgotten what that felt like. He could tell that she was trying to word her next sentence carefully.

"So, you think that she sees herself as your caretaker? You think she can't ever feel for you, romantically?"

"It didn't matter if she did, I wouldn't deserve her." He almost choked trying to get those words out. His throat was burning, and if he wasn't careful, his eyes would overflow. "I fell for her that first day. I was so stupid—I didn't even realize it until my wife left me. Not even after you told me point blank."

"I shouldn't have said it. It was wildly inappropriate. I was lashing out."

He offered her a small smile. "If you saw it, my ex probably did too. But I was loyal to her, to the very last. In a way, I still am."

"It's kind of ironic, isn't it? Gillian's moved on, and you haven't."

"She knows it, too. She reads me like you read books." He rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands.

"And yet, she doesn't know that you love her?"

"She didn't know that Alec was cheatin' on her, even though it was written all over his face. You know, she defended him to me? Told me his lies about his mistress bein' his sponsor. Most of her believed him, too. And now, every time she touches me, I know it's because she misses him."

"How do you know it's him and not you?"

"I know, trust me."

Christine pondered a bit in silence before responding.

"I'm not going to lie; I know she really loved Alec." He smiled at the disgust that appeared on her face as she said his name. "She spent years holding that marriage together, and he kept pushing her away. You know as well as I do that she adopted Sophie partly to strengthen their relationship. I've never seen someone who was so good at hiding her own self-destruction." More empathy. "But I know two things: when Gillian lets go, Gillian _lets go_."

"And the other thing?"

"Gillian doesn't use people. Not for anything." No shrugs of any kind, no other deception leakage. She believed it.

"Not on purpose, you mean."

"She's better than that. You can see if people are lying; Gillian can see who people _are_. She knows that you're you. What she doesn't know is what you want, and you're going to have to explain that to her if you want to break free of this self-imposed captivity you've got going."

"When I get close, she pulls away."

"Well, yeah. _Of course _she's scared, that's why you have to be gentle and go slowly. You know her father was an alcoholic, and I wouldn't be surprised if he hit her. Then she gets married, and her husband ends up snorting coke? That's enough to make a woman run to a nunnery."

They both laughed, despite themselves. Lightman playfully nudged Christine with his shoulder.

"She taught you well, you know. You're not that bad of a shrink." She gave him a humble smile.

He looked over at her before he followed her gaze, staring straight ahead through the glass at the people going back and forth. There they stood: two people who knew the price of honesty. Two people who bore the names of their mentally ill mothers, and who had breathed in sorrow and spat it back out.

Two people who owed everything to a Dr. Gillian Foster.

* * *

When Lightman returned to the lab, his new friend following close behind, Loker looked like he was about to explode. With Reynolds, Foster, and Torres looking on, he wasted no time telling the newcomers that he had solved the puzzle._  
_  
"It's like that soccer play I saw yesterday," he explained. "Christine stole the ball and passed it to her teammate. While everybody turned their attention to the girl with the ball, Christine was able to move freely towards the goal."

"Yeah," Christine confirmed, "it would have been impossible to get the ball through all of the girls on the other team."

"Exactly. You used a distraction to get into position. So did the kidnapper."

"This is a kidnapping after all?" Reynolds seemed torn between being relieved that he'd received an answer and being frustrated at all the times that answer had changed.

"Yes. Perdita Greenwood was the diversion. By demanding a ransom, one thing was bound to happen that hadn't happened in fifteen years: Silas Kasim would have to leave his house."

A light bulb went on in Foster's brain. "So he could get robbed," she said. She was as surprised at her words as the others were. "But, I saw the inside of his house. There wasn't anything in there worth stealing."

"The manuscripts," Christine said. "Remember those stacks of paper he had all over his house? Those were the drafts of almost every book in the American canon. They're worth a fortune."

"I didn't figure it out until I saw this on the tape." Loker pulled up the video of Kasim's estate on the screen and paused it on the face of the female security guard. The right corner of her mouth was up and back, her eyes down.

"Contempt, shame, and pleasure," Lightman said. "She's it." He tried not to look Foster's way.

"He was too private," Loker said. "The only people who would have known about Greenwood and had access to the estate would have been on his security team. But, she still needs him to leave, so she took his girlfriend and made him drop the ransom off at the Lincoln Memorial, about an hour drive from his house, with traffic. You add the two hours he waited, plus the travel time, and you've got a big enough window to get in and get out."

Reynolds didn't waste any time calling it in. Now, the chase was on.


	8. Another Draft

Chapter 8: Another Draft

_April, 2003_

"_Is the doctor in?" Cal tried to sound innocent as he poked his head past the doorframe._

"_Present!" Foster answered with a smile as she waved him in. She saw the file in his hand and looked at him nervously. "So, what's the verdict?"_

"_You're really attached to that girl, aren't ya? You never made me call you once a week." He pretended to be hurt. _

"_That's because you're hopeless," she teased. "Now, tell me what your report is going to be."_

"_Well, to be honest, I think you're right. She's not a danger to anyone. If anything, her tantrum proved that. And she's sincere when she says she's not going to hurt herself."_

_Cal was surprised to find himself wrapped in a tight hug that felt better than it should._

"_Oh Cal, thank you. I owe you one. I really owe you one." He pulled away and tried not to show how uncomfortable he was._

_He looked down and put his hands in his pockets. "We'll just take a drop out of the bucket of what I owe you, won't we?" She smiled, flattered. He continued, "I have an idea I think you might like. Something that might benefit the both of us."_

"_Oh?"_

_Part of what Christine had said was dead-on: Foster was miserable here. A good friend wouldn't let her waste away in such a place._

"_I was wonderin' what you'd think about comin' to work for me," he corrected himself, "_with _me. How about joinin' The Lightman Group?"_

"_That's what you're calling it? How can it be a group if you're the only one in it?"_

"_'S not just me. Emily has done a bang-up job as assistant since she learned long division." That made her smile. "Besides, if you joined, it really would be a group. Look, it's not like we have an office yet, or any employees, but I think we could get there."_

"_And I'd have you for a boss?"_

_He shook his head. "No, we'd be equal partners. You've helped me on cases before, and you know the science well enough. I need someone who has a head for the business side of it. But, we're going to have to set rules."_

"_What kinds of rules?"_

"_Well, we'll have to have a line. You're gettin' too good at reading people, and as I said before, I'm not your patient. So, when we read each other, we ignore what we see unless the other person wants to talk about it."_

"_Fair enough."_

"_You'll do it?"_

_She nodded. _

"_I'll have to talk about it with Alec, but yes. Something I overheard yesterday made me think that maybe I need a career change."_

_There was an awkward pause as Lightman feared she was going to bring up the rest of what Christine had said. Would she accuse him of being in love with her?_

_But she flashed him a cheeky smile._

_And they laughed._

_

* * *

  
_

January, 2010

Within minutes, the FBI had surrounded the home of the female security guard, who Reynolds identified as Mina Quisling. As the agents surrounded the house, taking cover from their cars as they pointed guns at the windows, Lightman and Foster found themselves playing babysitter for a Nobel laureate.

"All of this was about the manuscripts?" Silas Kasim's face was an appropriate mix of fear and disgust. Lightman waited for Foster to step in and do what she did best.

"Quisling knew you'd never leave your house unless Perdita's life was in danger," she explained, her voice warm and comforting. "The abduction was timed so that you would hear the whole thing, and Quisling knew that when you took her colleagues to the drop site, she would be on duty alone. She also knew how much you cared for Perdita. Any man would have done what you did."

Lightman couldn't help but feel comforted himself as he listened to his partner put Kasim at ease. Even as Reynolds shouted threats over the loudspeaker, her calm voice filled him with the same fuzzy warmth she gave him the first day he sat as a patient in her office. He could control every muscle in his face, every movement of his body, but he hadn't been able to squash the attachment that had grown stronger with every session. It had been a stark difference from the way he felt at home.

Zoe was wild, harsh, exciting, and demanding. She offered Cal the thrilling challenge of trying to tame her, but he knew that he couldn't spend the rest of his life with a woman who mistook blind passion for love. Putting up with that had almost broken him.

Oddly enough, Foster had helped him figure that bit out. Foster, who wasn't afraid of her own femininity, who was brave enough to be happy, who was human enough to let her heart ache for her own patients. How could he have possibly resisted her warm affection? When Zoe was crashing down on him like a tidal wave, how could he stop himself from wrapping Foster's sympathy around him like a tourniquet?

When he had a wife to be loyal to, the way Foster made him feel was dangerous. It had been even more dangerous when he was single and she wasn't, and the line he had drawn kept them both safe. It didn't matter what she could see, or what he felt; he'd hide it, and she'd let him.

She knew about his mother. She knew that he used solitude as a coping mechanism. He had always hoped that she saw the line as a courtesy instead of a security net, as a request for privacy instead of a plea against infidelity. But her sniveling, weak husband had crumbled under her search for peace, after the stress of helping others was too heavy to bear alone. When he had failed to support her the first time she had ever actually needed him, the line had been as much of a comfort to her as it had been to Cal. It was _her_ line now, her way of avoiding the truth she knew he saw. Now, she was the one who was hiding, for her own reasons, and it was Cal who pretended not to see the pain.

The line that he had drawn to protect himself had him by the neck.

"Cal?"

Lightman was drawn out of his thoughts by the same voice that had inspired them. He found himself still at her side, the only difference being that Kasim seemed calm and relaxed. Foster pointed to the house, and following her finger, he saw someone emerging from the front door.

"Is that the hostage?" Lightman's question was directed at Kasim, but the writer's eyes didn't leave the woman, who had milky white skin and fiery red hair.

After a pause, the writer swallowed. "I've never seen her in person before. I've only heard her voice."

Foster put a hand on Kasim's shoulder. "It must be hard to have a relationship with someone who hides part of herself from you." Lightman couldn't believe it. Had she heard what she just said?

"No, Dr. Foster," Kasim humbly corrected, "I hid myself from her, and she was strong enough to let me. I know better now. That part of our lives is over." Without another word, he walked past the agents, crouched under the crime scene tape, and presented himself to the redheaded woman, who locked him in a tight embrace.

Gillian Foster's mouth formed the smile she only used when a case had a happy ending. It was bright and content, and Lightman found that its subtle power made the corners of his mouth rise until he had wrinkling around his eyes. There was that warmth again.

When the FBI agents rushed into the house, they knew that it was safe to approach. In seconds, the tall, blonde guard who Lightman recognized from the video was brought out in hand cuffs. He couldn't resist having a go at her as she was escorted into the back of a car. He bent down so she would see him from where she sat.

"It would've been easier if you'd killed him. You could've been halfway across the world before anybody noticed he was dead."

Mina Quisling's face was full of conflict, showing everything from scorn to self-loathing.

"You never read his stuff," she said, "I couldn't kill a guy who wrote like that."

Before Lightman could ask another question, an agent shut the car door. As he watched the car speed off, he felt a presence next to him. Without looking to see who it was, he took out his wallet, thumbed through his cash, and placed two twenties and a ten into Foster's waiting palm. She snatched the bills up happily.

"You should've known better," she said, using the sing-song tone the he often teased her about. As he smirked and turned to leave, she caught his arm and pulled him back.

"What, you thought you could just leave without telling me how your conversation with Christine went?" She watched his surprised face with her kind eyes.

"Ah, well, I think we got some things sorted." He stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked the ground.

Foster's relief was unmistakeable. "Good. Does that mean she can come by the office without making you retreat into your study?" She was teasing, he knew that, but something Kasim had said made him ignore her playful tone.

"I saw the way you were looking at her today. It reminded me of how I feel when I look at Emily." He watched as she lowered her head. "She's int'resting, that girl."

Foster let out a warm chuckle. "She believes that human beings are in a constant state of revision."

Lightman considered that. "Well, maybe she's right. I mean, I know we always say that things change and people don't, but what if they could? Christine did. Kasim did, too. He's a different man than the one I interviewed. This experience has changed the way he looks at the world."

"Well, if Cal Lightman is changing his mind, then it must be possible." She sent him a playful smile, then let herself grow serious. "Chris worked really hard to be the way she is now. Most people don't have the strength that she does."

"Do you think we do?"

The question caught her by surprise, and when he saw that she didn't understand, he slid his hand into hers and kissed her slowly and affectionately on the forehead.

Gillian looked back at him with an open mouth and wide eyes. She knew what a man like Cal meant when he held a woman's hand in public. His face confirmed what she'd suspected—that he was asking her permission to claim her as his. She spent a few seconds staring at their entwined fingers before bringing her gaze back at him.

"What are you doing?" He was relieved to see that she was simply curious, rather than angry. "Are you trying to erase our friendship?"

"No, Darling. Not erase—revise." She put her head down again, and he leaned close so he could whisper gently in her ear. "I don't want to hide this part of me."

"Cal . . ."

"Gill."

She heard her name come off of his lips, and she had to admit to herself that she loved the sound. She had to accept that feeling his hand fit perfectly into hers made her shake. Most importantly, she couldn't deny the pull that she had always felt, the attraction that had only increased the more she knew him, or the way he had slowly carved a place inside of her heart. He had his faults, that was for sure. But she had always been able to see past that, hadn't she? In her darkest moments, hadn't he always been there to help her find happiness? Cal was a man who knew who he was and what he wanted, and if he was doing this . . .

"We're not starting from scratch, are we?" She was relieved to see him shake his head. He let go of her hand so he could wrap her tightly in his arms.

"I think we should take what we have, and try looking at it a different way so we can make it better. Isn't that what revision is?"

She put her arms around him and pulled him closer, taking in the scent she knew so well. The gentle pressure of Cal's body against hers felt so natural, so organic, like she was made to be in his embrace.

"I think I'd like that." She breathed in his scent a second time. "And while we're revising, can I request an edit?"

"Of course."

"I don't want to be Foster anymore—I want to be Gillian. I want us to be on equal ground."

He pulled back so he could see her face, but this time he wasn't studying it. He was admiring it. Listening to what it had to say to him. They locked eyes for a moment, then his arms fell from her shoulders until he was once more holding her hand. He drew in a big, clean breath that seemed to cleanse his whole soul of the fear and worry that had been festering there. The message they were sending the world now was clear: she wasn't Alec Foster's girl any more. He cast another glance over her whole body, basking in the wonder of the woman that he now had the privilege of calling his own.

"Well, Gillian, shall we be off?"

THE END

* * *

A/N: Thank you for sticking with me to the end! I hope you enjoyed my treatment of The Line. I've always thought that if one person had more to hide, it would be Lightman. He is always more closed than Foster is.

Thanks again for your kind words of encouragement! I wasn't really sure what to expect, but this was a pretty cool experience. I've already started on another idea I have, so, see you soon!


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